


Creative Writing, Or How To Write Your Own Love Story

by TypewriterTardis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how to AO3 tag??, Ignoring significant details haha, M/M, Pain, Panic Attack, Scisaac plus some sterek and berica, alternate season 3, mentions of self harm, uh i still don't know how to AO3 tag??? sorry??????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypewriterTardis/pseuds/TypewriterTardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott really doesn't know why he thought taking creative writing was a good idea. But it's too late now, and, luckily, Isaac is around to help him with his homework...</p><p>An alternate season three. Nothing past 2x12 is canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I started this whole mess before Season 3 started, so I suppose it's like an alternate Season 3... With a lot of... Scisaac... and... stuff... Yeah. I basically ignored a bunch of crap (like how Allison is actually in the season and how Erica and Jackson aren't and how Derek lives in a loft, not the old house, and how Peter doesn't live with him) because a) I felt like it and b) some stuff I just didn't know about (aka stuff from Season 3). Call it creative license. So just ignore all of Season 3 and you'll be good. Actually, also ignore the bit where Erica and Boyd ran away. Just pretend that didn't happen too.
> 
> And I realize now, editing this, that I use the word “slightly” a lot, which is funny because a friend once told me she hated it when fanfiction writers use “slightly” all the time. And I also found that I used murmured on several occasions as well, which is also funny, seeing as another friend once told me that she never could feel the same about it after being told that it crops up more times than is reasonable in Twilight. Ha ha ha oh well. 
> 
> I'm sorry though. This is pretty much all fluff and sad feels and pain and literally no action at all and I ignored the existence of the Alpha Pack for a while and I apologize for that. Seriously. (I just don't write action, ok?)

_Summer_

“Isaac, dude, move your ass over, you're hogging Scott and the couch,” Stiles whined.

“Fine, I'll move,” Isaac began, starting to his feet, but Scott grunted and pulled him back down onto the edge of the couch.

“Nope, you're staying. I'm comfortable. Stiles, you'll have to move to the chair if you want to be near me, which obviously everyone does-”

“You're starting to sound like me,” Stiles grumbled, moving to the chair.

“Isaac, relax,” Scott said in an undertone. “You look like a tree over there. Come back.” Isaac blinked at him and Scott knew why. Friendly physical contact was still a foreign concept to him. Still, he'd definitely opened up over the summer, had certainly become accustomed to the Stiles-Scott friendship. But Scott saw how he still flinched when they went in for a hug, how he twitched slightly when someone touched him. He saw the unconscious reactions – wincing when Stiles flailed and his arms flew up, tensing when anyone, be it in a movie or in real life, slammed their hands down on the table. He knew why. He'd seen the freezer. He knew. So he ran a finger down Isaac's arm gently and patted the couch beside him. “Come on, I want something to lean on.”

“Okay I need more popcorn,” Stiles announced to the room at large. “Be right back.” He paused. “ 'Okay Stiles, can you get me some, buddy?' 'Sure thing, old pal, anything for you!' 'Gee thanks, man, you're awesome!' 'No problem, I do my best.' ” When he got no reply, he rolled his eyes and left for the kitchen.

“Why are you so tense?” Scott muttered.

“I'm not tense,” Isaac lied.

“If you don't like coming over to watch stuff, you don't have to come, you know,” Scott said carefully.

“I like it,” Isaac hurried, his fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.

“Do you?”

“Yes! I do, it's just... Just...” He looked up and a picture flashed through Scott's mind, of Isaac in the animal clinic, looking up at him and saying, _Good, 'cause I don't have anyone_. “I feel sort of out of place, like I'm invading your friendship or something.” He shrugged. “It's not your fault though,” he rushed, noting Scott's distressed expression. “You don't have to invite me if you don't want to.”

“What?” Scott squawked, barely keeping his voice down. “You're not invading our friendship. And we _want_ to invite you. It's fun. Come on, man, what, you think Derek made me ask you?”

“Yeah.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Well he didn't. And I don't do what he tells me anyway. I'm not a member of his _Pack_.”

“I wish you were.”

It took Scott a moment to process that. “What do you mean?”

“I wish you were a member of his Pack. He's a shitty trainer and since Jackson and Lydia never come around any more, it's just Boyd and Erica eye-fucking ever since they got back and Peter snarking from his corner and frankly, he's just creepy.” He turned his eyes to Scott's unwaveringly, which was extremely unnerving, and finished with, “You'd make it so much better.”

“Um, thank you? I guess?”

The microwave beeped.

“So are you going to come back and give me something to lean against or not?”

With one part reluctance and three parts relief, Isaac moved back to the cushion beside Scott, who happily settled against his incredibly firm shoulder.

“Gee, thanks, buddy!” Scott said enthusiastically to Stiles, who ignored him and flopped into his chair and unpaused the movie in a huff.

On the screen, Loki made an agnsty face.

“You know, I still can't get over the fact that in the legends, Loki had sex with a horse and gave birth to an eight-legged horse baby,” Isaac mused.

Scott choked on popcorn and Stiles fell off the chair.

“You are _so_ not invading this,” Scott managed, wiping tears from his eyes. “No way.”

 

“I feel like I should do something... like training or conditioning or something. I mean, I'm just _sitting_ here!” groaned Isaac. “I haven't done _anything_ in the last two weeks.”

“Isaac,” Stiles admonished, “It is your last day of summer vacation. Tomorrow we return to those halls and torture chambers for another year. If you do something productive today, you will regret it after a week or two. I promise you that, my friend. We know from experience.”

“Hear, hear!” Scott cried from the couch, raising a can of soda lazily. “I propose we watch another movie.”

“I second the motion!” Stiles and Scott turned to Isaac.

“Fine, motion passes,” Isaac sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “But only because you made me. I'm totally gonna regret not training when lacrosse starts.”

“Eh, we've got a while,” Scott said comfortably.

“Yeah and actually, I'm the one who should be worrying about that,” Stiles frowned. “You two are the werewolves with freaky sports powers!”


	2. Week One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott gets his first assignment and has absolutely no idea what to do with it.
> 
> I suck at summaries, never ask me to summarize anything, I swear to God.

_Monday – Week One_

The paper before him remained stubbornly blank. No matter how many times he pressed the pen to the paper, nothing came. Well, except for the large black splotches of ink. It was 11:42 by the clock on his desk and he still hadn't written anything on the sheet of paper due the next morning.

By 11:53, Scott had succeeded in writing his name on the first line.

By 12:05, he was seriously doubting his life choices and it was only the first week of school. _It's too early for this kind of stress,_ he thought, resting his head on the desk. _Why did signing up for Creative Writing seem like a good idea again?_

He was jolted awake from his light slumber by the sound of a body hitting the floor. “What the – Isaac?”

Isaac blinked up at him from the floor by the window. “Uh, hi.”

“Why are you in my room at –” Scott checked the clock and groaned – “1:25 AM?”

“I, um, was taking a walk. And I was near here and your light was on,” Isaac explained slowly, not meeting Scott's eyes. “So I climbed up here to check on you and I, um, fell in the window.”

“You _fell_ in the window? As in, you were outside and you fell inside?” Scott clarified.

“Yeah?”

Scott laughed. “That's actually kind of sad, dude. Don't we have like super amazing balance or something?”

“Maybe.” Isaac cracked a smile and Scott felt vaguely relieved. He offered him a hand up, blinking in surprise when Isaac raised an eyebrow at it. “What?”

“Nothing,” Isaac said quickly, taking his hand hesitantly. “So why are you still awake?”

“Essay. Creative Writing.” Scott shuddered, casting a glance at the blank paper on the desk behind him. “I don't know why I even signed up for that class. I have no idea what I'm doing.”

“Oh!” Isaac smiled, a genuinely happy smile, and asked, “Can I see what you have so far?”  
“Well,” Scott began uncertainly.

“Oh, that's okay,” Isaac hurried. “You don't... have to show me if you don't want to.” He swallowed nervously, looking at the floor and shifting his feet uncomfortably.

“It's not that!” Scott made a face. “It's just...” He gestured at the blank page. “I don't have anything. Yet.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow. “And when is this due?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And how long is it supposed to be?”

“Three pages. _Single spaced_.” Scott said the last two words heavily, with the feeling of his impending doom looming over him.

“Well,” Isaac began slowly, “I could help you, if you want.”

“You – You would?” Scott's eyes widened. “You sure you want to get into this? I mean, Stiles says I'm hopeless so...”

“Yeah, I don't mind.” Isaac shrugged his shoulders, digging his hands into his pockets, his long, thing body hunching over slightly. He looked painfully awkward.

“Well, um, make yourself at home, man,” Scott said, hoping to lighten the mood.

 

Isaac started with a prompt. It was a free write, no rules, no holds barred. “ _Just not porn,_ ” the teacher had sighed, with a definite “been there, done that” expression plastered across her face. But seeing as Scott couldn't think of a damn thing to write about without mentioning a) werewolves, b) hunters, or c) mortal peril, a prompt seemed like the place to start.

“So what's the first thing that comes to mind when I say the word...” Isaac thought for a moment, then, “ _Pen_.”

“Allison,” Scott said without looking up from where he was writing “ _pen_ ” on a piece of scratch paper.

“Why?”

“Her first day at school I lent her a pen.”

“Okay... How about _time_?”

“Allison.”

“Why?”

“We'd set times to meet after dark.”

“Okay. _Dessert_?”

“Allison.”

Isaac looked pained. “Scott, come on, really? _Dessert_?”

“Well, maybe her dad. I was at her house once and there was a, um, a conversation over dessert.”

“Okay, what about _the color blue_?”

“Allison.”

Isaac turned away, swiveling away from Scott to put his face in his hands. “So everything is Allison, then?”

“... I guess so, yeah.”

“Then just write about her.”

“What?”

“Write about Allison! She's all you ever think about anyway.” The hint of bitterness in Isaac's voice made Scott look up. Contrary to common belief (and by common belief, he meant Stiles), Scott was not _totally_ oblivious.

“Okay,” he said carefully, setting the pen to the paper slowly. “Okay,” more enthusiastically.

It took him an hour and a half to fill all three pages, lots of crossed out patches, lots of dubious spellings. When he was done, he snuck a glance at Isaac, sitting quietly by his side, hands in his lap. He hadn't moved for about an hour, eyes trained on the desk before him. About 15 minutes in, Scott had told him he could leave if he wanted, had thanked him for the help, and had received a monosyllabic answer, most closely translated as a “no.” He'd given up after two more failed attempts at getting Isaac to go get some sleep.

But he was done and three slightly smudged papers sat before him.

“You wanna read them?” he asked, pushing them towards Isaac across the table top. Hesitantly, he picked up the first page. Scott watched his blue eyes scan the first few lines, before a smile played across his lips. Scott grinned.

 

Isaac set down the last page and gave Scott a rare sincere smile. “I really liked the bit about waiting for her to come in the woods. And the sitting on the roof part. That was good too.” He handed it back to Scott after neatly stacking the sheets, evening out the edges carefully. “It's good, but, um, next time vary your sentence structure. It makes it more interesting.”

“Well, thank you,” Scott told him. “I wouldn't have gotten anything written without your help.”

“I only gave you the idea to write about – Allison, it wasn't that much help,” Isaac protested, looking away uncomfortably. Scott pretended not to hear the almost indiscernible pause before Allison's name.

“Hey man, if you hadn't told me to write about her, I still wouldn't have anything done. I probably would have ended up writing about robot ninjas or something lame like that. I think I spend too much time around Stiles.”

Isaac laughed but didn't smile. “I should get going.”

“It's kind of, like, 2 in the morning, dude,” Scott protested. “You can stay the night, if you want. I mean, do you really want to run all the way home?” he added quickly, noting the embarrassed flush creeping onto Isaac's cheeks, even in the dim light from the desk lamp and hearing his heart rate pick up slightly.

“No, it's fine,” Isaac said, all confidence and smoothness, ducking out the window and flashing Scott his classic cocky grin, the one that said _I came to win_ every time in Scott's head. “See you tomorrow, Hemingway.”

Scott fought back a laugh and just said, “Yeah, see you.”

 

Tomorrow came and went, and then another tomorrow. There were chance encounters in the hall, a few words only. Scott had held up the stapled sheets of paper with an A- scrawled across the top and Isaac had smiled at him. There was lunch, Stiles celebrating Scott's grade in Creative Writing being a _good_ one (“It's a Christmas miracle!”) and Lydia slipping in veiled hints about Stiles and Derek.

 

 

_Thursday – Week One (Friday morning, technically, but Scott liked to think it was Thursday night until he went to sleep)_

And on Thursday night, there was another assignment. Scott sat at his desk, going through papers he'd left there for the one he'd written Isaac's prompts on, but he couldn't find it. He looked around his room for inspiration, but “lamp,” “chair,” “lacrosse stick,” and “door frame” weren't very good topics. The clock read 12:32 and there was still nothing on the paper before him.

Scott groaned, resting his forehead on the assignment sheet: Free write, 3 pages, single spaced.

There was a tap at the window.

Scott's head jerked up and he swiveled in his chair to see Isaac crouched outside on the roof. He waved.

With a faint feeling of amusement, Scott opened the window, watched Isaac unfold himself and his long limbs, and said, “Hey,” holding back a laugh.

“What's so funny?” Isaac asked when he had both feet on the floor and had straightened up.

“You looked like a spider. Your legs are really long, dude,” Scott told him, and, noting Isaac's embarrassed expression, added, “That's okay though. I don't have anything against spiders.”

“Well good, because if any show up, you're going to have to deal with it,” Isaac told him, perching on the side of Scott's desk, “because I don't like them, the nasty little bastards.”

Scott considered laughing and didn't. “Okay,” he said, completely seriously. “I'll be your knight in shining armor and save you from the fearsome beasts, if the need arises.”

“I'm no damsel in distress,” Isaac said quietly.

“I know,” Scott told him. “So how about now you be _my_ knight in shining armor and help me with this Creative Writing assignment because I have no idea what to write about. Unless you had something you wanted to say?”

“Uh...”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Hastily, Scott continued, “Not that I'm complaining or anything. I'm glad you're here. I mean you know, I do need help with this whole writing thing... But what are you doing here anyway?”

“I was taking a walk and your light was on...” Isaac trailed off. “So I figured you probably had another writing thing to get done.”

Scott patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, dude!” He smiled widely at Isaac, still leaning on the desk.

“So it's a free write?” Isaac clarified. He turned the assignment sheet toward him on the table. “What about writing about... a trip you've been on?”

“I don't really ever go anywhere.”

“Okay, what about lacrosse?”

“I don't know what I can write about it.”

“Okay, a song?”

“What song?”

“Never mind. What about food.”

“That will make me hungry though.”

“The impending zombie apocalypse?”

“How much time have you been spending around Stiles lately?”

“Haha. A dream you've had?”

“I don't really dream much any more. Do werewolves even dream? I mean regularly?”

Isaac's eyes widened momentarily and Scott could hardly miss the clenching of his fist on his knee as he said, “Believe me, Scott, they do.” His voice was completely under control when he said, “Why don't you write about a pet you've had then?”

“Okay. I had a fish once,” Scott said after a moment's thought and pulling a sheet of paper toward him. “I was eight and it died after three months.”

“What was its name?” Isaac asked quietly, after a moment of hesitation.

Scott blinked at him. That wasn't usually the first question asked about a dead fish. But this was Isaac and he'd probably never had pets. So... “Allen.”

Isaac laughed. “Seriously? How did you end up naming a fish that?”

“It was my dad's middle name. _Is_ my dad's middle name,” Scott amended.

“Oh.” Isaac didn't ask. “So why don't you write about Allen?”

“I think I will.” Scott smiled, the unasked, unanswered question in the air above them.

It took him about three quarters of an hour to fill three pages. Isaac had sunk to the floor by Scott's feet, head back against the desk drawers as he watched Scott write, his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Well,” said Scott, yawning. It was past 1:30. “What do you think?” he asked, passing the slightly smudged (he'd written it in fountain pen) pages to Isaac, who had to stand up to get better light.

“Here, sit in the chair! You sat on the floor! I'm a horrible host,” Scott groaned. He pushed Isaac into the desk chair he had just vacated, then loomed over his shoulder to reread.

Isaac read faster than Scott did.

He pointed out spelling errors needing correction and at the end, said, “I like the part where you pick him out from all the fish at the store.” Scott felt vaguely surprised. Fishes were “its” for most people. “Also the part where you talk about the funeral you had for him.”

Scott couldn't help but grin. “Thanks for all your help, man.” And he really was grateful, and not just for the writing prompts either. Isaac's company was... nice.

“Any time.” Isaac heaved himself to his feet and towered over Scott, about a head taller than him, when he didn't slouch. “See you around, Scott.”

“Yeah, see you around, Isaac.”

 

 

_Friday – Week One_

“Uh, so Derek?” Scott said into the phone.

“Yes? What do you want? Is there a problem?”

“No, I just...”

“What is it, Scott?”

“I was thinking... I'd, um, I was thinking maybe I, um, sort of rethought that thing I said about you not being my Alpha and I was wondering if I could join your Pack.”

“Oh.”

“If you want me.”

“...”

“So do you because I can't see your eyebrows over the phone –”

“Oh – yes! I – yes. Good... What do my eyebrows have to do with anything?”

“Oh, well, Stiles and I have decided that you communicate more with your eyebrows than with your words.”

“...”

“I can actually _hear_ you glare though, unless that's a scowl, but –”

“Well now that you're in my Pack you have to come to training and Pack Meetings when I tell you to. And you can bring Stiles too. Only if you want to! I'm not asking you to or anything.”

“Right, okay, I'll bring him. And I won't tell him you asked.”

“I didn't!”

“Right.”

“I didn't.”

“Hmm.”

“I _didn't_!”

 

 

_Saturday – Week One_

The very next morning, Scott called Stiles to say that Derek had called a Pack Meeting.

Well okay, when he said he "called it," he meant Peter called it and when he said “Pack Meeting,” he meant sit-and-listen session, but all the same, it meant Scott had to go.

Stiles sat with Derek on a couch (new, clean, and charcoal free) while Peter complained about curtains – apparently the real reason for the meeting. Scott himself ended up next to Erica and Boyd while Isaac perched behind him on the back of the couch. Jackson and Lydia had “other plans.”

So while Peter and Derek argued, Stiles watched with vague amusement, and Erica and Boyd made out enthusiastically next to them, Scott and Isaac were left to their own devices.

“Do you want to escape now, while they're having their battle of the gays?” Scott asked in an undertone as Stiles jumped in to side with Peter about “dark vs light for the breakfast nook in the kitchen” (which very quickly became “yes or no on the breakfast nook in the kitchen”).

Isaac fought back a laugh and muttered, “Yeah, let's get out of here before it's too late.” He led Scott into the hall, jerking his head towards the upstairs with a shrug. Scott nodded and followed him up to the second floor, where he'd never properly been before.

And so he'd never seen Isaac's bedroom.

It was to the right of the staircase, in the back corner of the house. The construction workers from the summer had done their job well. The walls were a plain white, no more burnt wood or holes in the floorboards. The window in the corner was curtainless, and Scott had to wonder if Isaac would let Peter get near it – or if he could stop him. The only piece of furniture was the bed, tucked in the corner and covered in a simple, white blanket. The closet door was ajar and through the gap, Scott could see clothing hanging from the rack inside. Not much, he didn't fail to notice. The room wasn't exactly cozy. It was empty, but...

“Nice,” Scott said lightly.

“I hate it.”

“You _what_?”

Isaac tilted his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling. He stepped into the dead center of the room and gestured around him. “It's exactly like my room at home. Exactly. The bed is in the corner, the window is there,” he pointed, “the closet my dad shut me in, the door he slammed.” He sank to the floor, looking up at Scott. “Sometimes I wake up at night and I think I'm back there – at the house – and he's still... _in there_ somewhere.”

Scott couldn't think of anything to say, so he walked across the room to sit beside Isaac on the floor. “What can we do to make it different?” he asked finally. When Isaac frowned at him, he explained, “What if we move to bed? We can put it over...” He got to his feet and retreated to the opposite corner. “Here? Or...” walking to the corner beside the door, “Here? Would that help?”

Isaac considered him for a moment. “I guess it might.”

“Come on! Let's do it!” Scott offered him a hand. Isaac took it.

 

Between the two of them, they managed to move the bed across the room diagonally without _too_ much noise and only a minimal amount of scraping and swearing.

“Perfect.” Scott grinned.

“Thanks for the help,” Isaac said, smiling and staring at the bed critically. “I should get a different blanket. That one makes it look a hospital in here.”

“Ask Peter to find you one,” Scott suggested.

“No!” squawked Isaac. “I am so not letting him in here! He would _destroy_ this place.”

“A come on, it might not be that bad.” Scott fought to maintain his grin. “Just a bit more.. colorful!”

“If by colorful, you mean like a paint store exploded, then yes.”

“I'm thinking more like if you bred a gay bar with an interior decorator's office,” said Stiles from the doorway. The two jumped guiltily. “You didn't think your absence would go unnoticed, did you? Because hello! Werewolves?” He flailed at them exasperatedly. “So anyway, Peter needs one of you for a tie-breaker for the curtains.”

“Isn't there already an odd number of people down there? Unless Boyd and Erica count as one –” Isaac began, but Stiles cut him off, saying, “Derek doesn't get a vote because Peter says he's too biased.”

Scott snorted.

 

The curtains were dark purple “with lilac stripes” and Peter, Stiles, and Isaac were very pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering, Scott's sentences were too short, hence the Hemingway reference.


	3. Week Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to try with the chapter summaries any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Slightly Friend also doesn't like it when fanfiction author's use the characters' names in dialogue very often. Ha haha haha ha hahahaha.

_Monday – Week Two_

Scott felt vaguely disappointed to discover that there was a prompt this time: _holidays_.

But by the time he had realized that it really didn't matter that there was a prompt, he still had no inspiration, it was already 11:30 and he needed Isaac around to give him an idea.

So Scott took a nap.

“Oh Scott, come on,” Isaac sighed, poking him in the side. “Wake up. You haven't written anything.”

Scott jerked awake. “Oh hey! You let yourself in the window.”

“Oh um, yeah, sorry, should I not –”

“No, it's fine. What is it they say? Mi casa es tu casa or whatever.” Scott shrugged , shooting Isaac a crooked grin.

Hesitantly, it was returned, Isaac perching on the side of the bed. “So another writing thing, then?”

“Oh, yeah. Dude, I'm hopeless. I don't even know why I took this class. I have no idea what I'm doing and there's even a prompt this time,” he added.

“Oh.” Isaac looked surprised and a little something else. “I guess you don't need me then. I'll see you around –”

“No! No, don't leave,” Scott gasped, Isaac pausing, half risen, to stare. “I mean, I do sort of need help anyway. The prompt is holiday and I still don't know what to write about or how to write it.”

Isaac laughed. “Okay,” he said, sitting back down slowly. “What's your favorite holiday?”

“It's a toss up between Thanksgiving and Christmas. My mom makes really good food and I just really like Christmas.”

“Okay, so what do you do for Thanksgiving?” Isaac watched him intently.

“My mom makes dinner, and then Stiles and his dad come over,” Scott began. The expression on Isaac's face slowed him down, the hunger in his eyes, they way he was tensed, leaning forwards, his heart rate picking up just a smidge. “And for Christmas, we do basically the same thing. We go over to their place for dinner on Christmas Eve. We have a tree here though. I love having a tree.”

“What's it like?”

Scott frowned. “What's what like?”

“Having a tree.”

“Don't you – didn't you ever have one?”

“Not that I can remember very well.” It was Isaac who was frowning this time. “I don't think my dad ever let my mom have one before she died. We didn't really do Christmas at all after Camden... died.” He stopped and looked down at his hands. “So what is it like, having a tree?” He angled his head back up, biting his lip.

Scott had to think about it for a little while before answering. “I love going into the living room when we've got the tree. My mom turns on the lights in the evening when it's dark, so you can see the lights reflected in the window. And before we go to bed, she turns off the lights in the room, but leaves the tree lit up so we can look at it... When I was little, I used to sneak downstairs at night and turn the tree back on so I could see it. Before the divorce, my dad used to unplug the tree so I couldn't do that because sometimes I'd fall asleep under the tree and leave the lights on.”

“Is that dangerous? Is it a fire hazard or something?” Isaac's eyes were wide with concern for the younger Scott he'd never known.

“No.” Scott smiled woefully. “He said it was a waste of electricity. After they split up, my mom started leaving the lights on later, in defiance, I think.”

Isaac was silent, feeling Scott's eyes on him. “It sounds nice,” he managed.

Scott was lost for anything to say to that, so instead, he moved to the bed beside him, leaving about an inch between them, knowing Isaac still had trouble with too much physical contact. He awkwardly bumped shoulders with him in hopes of lightening the mood. “So I guess I'll write about that Christmas tree,” he said lightly. Isaac just nodded. “You know,” Scott said slowly, “Why don't you write one too? I mean, you know, just because you just sit there the whole time and that doesn't seem very fun. I mean, don't you get bored?” Scott knew he was used to Stiles's miniscule attention span, but sitting for almost an hour watching someone write their homework assignment was ridiculous.

“I'd like to, but I don't really have much to say about holidays,” Isaac began, but Scott cut across him. “That's okay, just write about what you _do_ have to say. Whatever that is.”

“Okay.” He sounded skeptical.

“It'll be fun. You won't be bored.”

“I wasn't bored anyway.”

And somehow, Scott believed him.

 

As it turned out, not only did Isaac read faster than Scott, he wrote faster than him too. He had three pages half an hour before Scott did, and sat doodling idly in the margins. He drew wolves.

“Okay, done.” Scott set down the pencil. He'd learned his lesson from the smudge marks from last week. “Sorry you had to wait like an hour anyway,” he joked. Isaac looked at him evenly and said, “No problem.”

“So... you want to read it?” Scott asked hesitantly. When Isaac paused, he threw in, “You don't have to let me read yours, it's fine. I mean, if, you know... you don't want me to read it.”

Isaac looked slightly relieved, but after a moment's thought, passed the papers to Scott anyway. “You can read it. It's not very good, but I don't mind you reading it. Not you.”

Possible responses chased themselves around Scott's head until he finally just said, “Okay” and took the papers, pushing his own across the table.

It was hard getting past the first paragraph. Isaac had written about his mother's love of Halloween and Thanksgiving. Scott had to read it three times for it to sink in. And then the last sentence of the paragraph... “So it seemed fitting that when she died, it was on the day of thanks.” He paused on it, glancing up at Isaac, who didn't notice, or at least, Scott decided, pretended not to notice, as a miniscule jump of his heart rate gave him away.

Scott went back to reading, trying not to pause too long on things like “my father was worse on these days” and “for tinsel, only broken glass.” He was aware of Isaac watching, his heartbeat a nervous flutter, as his eyes rolled over the last sentence: “I will never be thankful for Thanksgiving.”

He screwed his eyes shut.

“Does it suck? It does, doesn't it?” Isaac got to his feet, laying Scott's paper on the bed neatly and haltingly moved to the window. “Okay, I'm gonna go and pretend I never tried to write and I promise I will _never_ do it again-”

Scott was on his feet in an instant, grabbing Isaac and turning him so they were face-to-face, or rather face-to-neck. Knowing it was probably a bad idea and not particularly caring, Scott wrapped both arms around Isaac's chest and rested his head on his shoulder.

Isaac froze, arms stiff at his side, bend slightly over Scott's elbows. But after about 5 seconds, he relaxed a bit. His hands slid up Scott's back to his shoulder blades, pressing him closer, his cheek resting on Scott's head. Scott felt Isaac's breath on his ear. He smelled Isaac's discomfort melting into something else, something he'd never known from Isaac before, unidentifiable.

As hugs went, it wasn't bad.

When they finally broke apart, Isaac said nothing.

“It really wasn't bad,” Scott told him. “It was... good,” Scott finished lamely. “I had no idea you could write.”

“Neither did I.” Isaac frowned.

“It was really well done. My teacher would make you read it to the class or something. You should show this off to the rest of the Pack.”

Isaac paled. “Don't tell them, I mean, I don't want –”

“Of course not, sorry, I didn't mean that, like, I meant, your writing skills, you know...”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, well, um... yeah.” Scott hoped Isaac knew also that the hug had said everything he couldn't quite say.

When Isaac left, Scott lay on his bed for another hour, thinking it through, the story he'd read retread three times total. Isaac hadn't taken it with him when he'd climbed slowly through the window and leaped to the ground outside, sprinting into the darkness beyond the reach of light from the street lamp. Somehow, it was even more shocking the fourth time through. Perhaps it was the line, “and on those nights, when he closed the door on me, there was nothing at all in the world I was thankful for” that Scott hadn't fully understood until then.

 

If Scott got an A- on his paper about watching his mom making pie and stringing up Christmas lights, he wondered what Isaac would have gotten.

 

 

_Tuesday – Week Two_

“Hey, Isaac!”

Isaac turned and his face split into a smile when he spotted Scott jogging towards him, a paper bag clutched in his hand. “Hey, so did you get a new blanket yet?” Scott asked, his eyes shining.

“Uh no?”

“Perfect! Okay, that's gooood because...” With a flourish, Scott revealed a blanket folded neatly in the bottom of the bag. “I got you one!”

Isaac stared wide-eyed at the garish piece of orange fabric. “Um thanks? It's nice. Uh. What _is_ it?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“It's Finding Nemo!” When Isaac looked nonplussed, Scott sighed and explained. “Remember that time Erica made fun of you for never having watched it? And then we all watched it? It was sometime in mid-August?” Isaac nodded, so Scott continued, “Well since you liked it, I got you a blanket!” He paused. “I mean, it's sort of a joke, so you don't have to use it if you don't want to or anything...”

“No, I actually... I actually kind of like it,” Isaac said slowly. “It's very... bright.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.” The smile Isaac gave Scott then was brighter than the blanket by far.

 

 

_Thursday – Week Two_

Scott's eyelids drooped. Red numbers swam before his eyes. It was only 10:45, but he was already exhausted. Physics was incredibly draining. It was a lot of math. Scott didn't like math, certainly not physics math, anyway. He glared at the prompt. It was probably keeping Isaac away... _Memory_. It was probably sending psychic waves that were scaring him off, on the day Scott had even brought in another chair for him. Stupid prompt. Stupid teacher with stupid prompts. Stupid –

_TAPTAPTAP_

Scott almost danced across the room to let Isaac in the window. “You _did_ come!”

“Scott, it's only 11. It's really not that late.” Isaac rolled his eyes but still looked pleased. “So what's the prompt?”

“Ahhh...” Scott steeled himself. “Memory,” he said, squinting at Isaac, trying to gauge his reaction. Pulse rose almost imperceptibly... Breathing hitched fleetingly...

“Oh, okay, cool. Can I borrow a pencil?”

It took Scott a little too long to realize he'd been asked something. He shook off the strange sense of protectiveness that had overwhelmed him to hand Isaac a pencil. Eyes narrowed, he watched as he began writing. The hunch of his shoulders seemed more tense than usual, the way he kept his arms near his sides and bent his head over the paper a bit too careful... His eyes were... No crap, he'd caught him staring.

“Ha... Um... Right...” Scott trailed off.

“Hmm?”

“Yeah.” Swiftly, he bent his head and scribbled a few words. He heard Isaac's pencil scratching across the paper. He sighed internally.

 

Halfway through, Isaac crumpled up the paper, letting out a gust of air angrily. Scott froze, wondering whether to pretend not to notice or – a loud thunk startled him as Isaac smacked his head into the table. “Ow,” he muttered after a moment.

“Are you okay?” Scott rubbed a hand over Isaac shoulder, at a loss.

“I just... I'm trying to write about something and I can't not write about something else and –” Pause. “Never mind. I just can't think right now. I'm sorry... Fuck.”

Scott couldn't think of anything to say, so he massaged Isaac's shoulder in the silence. Bringing it up was probably worse – he wasn't really supposed to know about the freezer. Scott pretended not to notice the shuddering breath Isaac drew in or the shaking of his shoulder under Scott's hand.

 

 

_Friday – Week Two_

“Scott?” Isaac's scent overwhelmed him.

“Yeah?” He turned to face him where they stood in the hallway.

“You knew about the freezer, didn't you.” It wasn't an accusation, but neither was it a question. “Derek showed you.”

“I – Uh... yes. I did... I did know.”

“Okay.” Isaac sighed, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Do you mind? I'm sorry – I didn't –”

“It's okay, I guess it's better this way, I mean, I'd rather not have to explain it. So it's better I don't have to, you know? But we aren't going to have to talk about it all the time, are we? Because I'd rather not –”

“No! Yeah no, we don't have to unless you... want to? Need to?” Scott stole a glance at Isaac, who heaved a relieved sigh.

“I've already talked to Derek about it once and that was weird. I wouldn't mind talking about it with you though. I'm glad you know.” He smiled.

Scott wasn't sure whether to smile back or cry. So he smiled.


	4. Week Three

_Monday – Week Three_

“Family.” Scott winced as he said it and instinctively knew that Isaac had too.

“Oh okay,” Isaac began, brightly. “Family, let's do this thing!”

“You... want to?”

“Yeah, why not? I have a family now, I've got Derek and Erica and Boyd and I guess I've got Stiles, he's been spending a lot of time back at the House lately.”

“Don't I know it,” Scott muttered. Louder, he added, “What about me? Am I family?”  


“Nah. You're different.” Isaac considered him, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. “You're more than family.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asked, his heart rate rising.

“I don't know. But it's better.” 

 

After _Family_ , they sat in silence, the papers before them on the table. 

Isaac broke the silence with a question. “Can your anchor change?”

“What?” Scott blinked. “I, uh, I'm not sure. I guess yeah, maybe it can.”

“Okay, good to know, I guess.”

“Uh, why? Did yours change?”

“I don't know yet. Maybe.”

“Oh. Okay.”

 

 

_Wednesday – Week Three_

“Yo, Scott!” Stiles grabbed his shoulder. “You have been looking super tired lately. What do you _do_ at night? Are you becoming nocturnal? Do you secretly become a bat and fight crime at night or something? Because you _know_ I would want you to tell me.”

“I've been doing Creative Writing homework with Isaac. He's really –”

“Wait, Isaac takes Creative Writing? I thought he was in philosophy this year? Yeah, Creative Writing is at the same time as his pre calculus class, so he can't be –”

“You know his _schedule_?” interrupted Scott, suddenly overcome by a mixture of jealously and inadequacy.

“Weeell, sort of, yeah,” Stiles said offhandedly.

“Wait, what is it?” Scott frowned, pulling out an index card and a pencil. “I should write it down.”

“Oh my God, Scott, you're such a creep sometimes, you know that? But an adorable one,” Stiles added after a moment's thought. “And so totally obvious. I don't know who you think you're fooling.”

“What,” Scott looked up, “Is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. But does he _write_ stuff too? I mean, he's not good at writing...”

“What? He's great! At writing,” Scott hurried. “He's a great writer. I read some things he wrote and they're... great.”

“You have such a vast vocabulary, Scott. It's really quite astounding. But he told me last year in chemistry that he's not very good at writing.”

“Oh... But he is, though.”

“Right, we've established that.”

“So what's his schedule?”

“Oh my God, you have such a one track mind. Fine, here, I'll write it down for you.”

 

 

_Thursday – Week Three_

Thursday came with another prompt: _Childhood_. Scott both happily anticipated and dreaded that night. _Childhood_ for Isaac couldn't be any less painful than _holiday_ had been.

And he was right.

Three pages later – three pages of idyllic pictures of a happy family, followed by two tragic deaths, and finishing up with painfully vague cruelty – Scott could do nothing but wrap his arms around Isaac crouched on the window sill, leaving after Scott's four minutes of close-mouthed silence. His chest pressed against Isaac's leg and arm, Scott rested his forehead on Isaac's shoulder and waited until a hand rose to cup Scott's forearm across his chest.

He only let go when an immediate danger of both of them falling out of the window arose.


	5. Week Four

_Monday – Week Four_

Monday came with another touchy prompt: _Father_. Scott dreaded that night when Isaac, unsuspecting, would climb in through the window, dreaded the memories the word would conjure up.

And sure enough, the light disappeared from Isaac's eyes when he asked, “So what's the prompt this time?” and heard Scott's answer.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“You don't have to do it, if you don't want to,” Scott hurried to say, “Really, it's okay, I mean, I know... Not a good topic, I guess.”

Isaac didn't say anything.

“But um, in class, the teacher said it doesn't have to be your dad, I mean, it can be a sort of father figure, too. Like one kid has a single mom, so you know...”

“Well...” Isaac sounded unconvinced. “I don't really have any 'father figures' in my life either.”

“Really?” Scott raised his eyebrows. “There must have been someone –”

“No, there wasn't.” Isaac sounded angry now. “My father wasn't a father after my mom died.” His voice was rising. “He loved my mother, and after he died, it was like that part of him died too. He never said her name, he burned the pictures, he wouldn't let me go to the funeral. I wasn't allowed to talk about her. I forgot what she looked like, Scott.” He took a deep breath, mouth twitching. “He wasn't my father any more. I didn't have a Deaton, Scott, I didn't even have a mother. And now all I have is an Alpha who doesn't know what to do with me and a Pack that pities me. So I think I'm going to go now.” He turned away. “Bye.”

Scott let him go without protest, wincing as he heard Isaac thump to the ground outside, curse quietly, and leave, limping.

He put his head in his hands. “Well done, Scott,” he whispered to himself. “Well done.”

Somehow, he wrote the three pages, scribbling them out almost illegibly, something vague about his dad and his parent's divorce, then something at the end about Deaton and how much he'd taught him.

He would have expected a C at best and was surprised when he saw a B at the top of his paper, next to the words, “You can do better.”

Isaac avoided him. It was hard, even after only four nights of it. The “Writing Writual” (Stiles's stupid name for it) was... fun. With Stiles spending all his time either researching plant lore or with Derek (“strategizing and formulating a plan of attack,” direct quote from Stiles), Scott felt a bit lonely.

And Erica and Boyd were terrible company.

Plus, Isaac's loner aura hadn't managed to hide his actual loneliness. Scott liked being useful. He liked being there for people. With Stiles even further out of his shell (and further out of another place Scott could think of), there really wasn't anyone to be _there_ for.

Derek didn't count. He had Stiles for that.

And Scott just _missed_ Isaac. He admitted it to himself easily, he _missed_ Isaac. He missed the smirks and the crooked grins. He missed the furrowed brow and the pensive eyes. (Had he just thought that? _Actually_?) He missed the hugs, however painful the reason for them. He missed the conversations. Hell, he missed the silences.

But it was true: He, Scott McCall, missed Isaac Lahey.

 

 

_Thursday – Week Four_

Thursday night came and went. No Isaac.

Scott fought his way through the prompt ( _Mother_  this time, so it was probably for the best that Isaac hadn't come.)

It made a B- and an “Is there anything you need to talk about?”

 

 

_Saturday – Week Four_

By Saturday, Scott had reached the end of his no-Isaac tether.

He texted Derek for Isaac's phone number and received a lengthy phone lecture about doing anything reckless or dangerous in the woods or “anywhere else, for that matter.” After seven patient minutes on his end, he heard a muffled and familiar voice saying, “Shut _up_ , Derek, you're missing all the kissing in the rain.”

“Stiles?” Scott asked, amazed. “Is _Stiles_ with you, Derek? And are you watching a _romantic comedy_? Because I am _so_ not surprised and Lydia is going to be _so_ happy –”

“Scott McCall, don't you dare say a single word to Lydia about this because if you do, I swear to God, I will –” Stiles's voice sounded over Derek's splutters. “Hiya, Scott!”

“How about you give me Isaac's phone number?”

“He doesn't have a phone.” Scott frowned. _There_ was a wrench in the works. How the Hell was he supposed to – “However, I would be willing to negotiate a trade. Your silence for me telling Isaac you want him.”

“Okay.” Lydia would find out on her own soon enough anyway.

“Right. ISAAC!” Scott had to hold the phone away from his ear. “SCOTT WANTS YOU! Right, okay, he's on his way.”

“Wait –”

“I upheld my end of the bargain, Scott. Now you must uphold yours. This is an unbreakable vow, Scott. I am a great wizard and with my hand I am now –”

“Okay, TMI, Stiles,” Scott joked and hung up the phone before either of them could say anything.

 

When Isaac appeared on the driveway below, Scott sprinted down the stairs to the door. He flung it open to reveal an embarrassed Isaac, frozen on the steps, both hands and one foot on the railing.

“I wasn't sure if I should climb up or not,” he explained, cheeks flushed.

“That's okay. I figured it would be weird for the neighbors seeing you climb onto my roof in the middle of the day.”

“That's sort of what I was thinking too. And I already think the police don't have a great impression of me.” Isaac shot Scott his signature playful grin, then looked down quickly.

“I, uh, wondered if you wanted to... uh, hang out or something. I don't know. I missed that. I know you've been avoiding me (and I totally deserve it) but I'm sorry about Monday night. I apologize for pushing you like that. Uh, I know it's a difficult thing to talk about... I know.”

“Do you?” Isaac's voice betrayed the smallest hint of bitterness.

“No, I guess I don't actually. So I'm sorry for pretending I do. I'm so sorry.” Scott looked up at Isaac carefully.

There was no response at first. Isaac straightened his t-shirt self-consciously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry I got so angry. It's not your fault. And it's not your fault I'm so... volatile either.”

“Hey, don't apologize,” Scott said hurriedly, stepping forward. “I'm the one who's supposed to be apologizing here, not you. So,” he continued, before Isaac could say anything, “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out, watch something, go somewhere, eat something, um... just... hang out?”

After a moment of hesitation, Isaac's face opened up in a smile. “Okay. And how did you do on the write last week? What was the prompt?”

“Well, I think it's better you weren't there because the prompt was _mother_. And I got a B-. I got a B on _father_ ,” Scott told him, and laughed aloud when Isaac said concernedly, “You can do better.”

 

“So, um, do you like baking?” Scott asked, leaning back into the couch cushions.

“Why?” Isaac raised his eyebrows at him, turning his gaze from the end credits of the Disney Peter Pan movie.

“Well, my mom read my holidays paper and saw the part about making pie and she was going to but she hasn't... y'know, had time. So I was going to make her one, but I sort of suck at baking and I have no idea what I'm doing and last time I tried to make something _not_ out of a box, I nearly burned down the whole house. So...”

Isaac let out a laugh. “I guess I'm okay at it. I made cookies for Derek the other day because he was moping, as usual.”

“And?”

“They turned out fine. I didn't burn them, if that's what you're wondering. And he liked them. So I guess I'm okay, yeah.”

“Do you have any idea about how to bake a pie?”

“No, but that's why they invented the internet.” Isaac disentangled himself from the blanket over their legs and got up. He offered Scott a hand, smirking slightly, not a mean-spirited smirk, an amused smirk. An _Isaac_ smirk.

Scott took the hand, firm and friendly, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. “Thank you, you're the best. Really,” he said, giving Isaac's shoulder a quick squeeze and meaning every word.

Isaac could feel the sincerity and hardly dared to be happy about it.

 

There were instructions online, actually easy-to-follow instructions too. Isaac insisted he could manage the crust, despite Scott's warning that, according to legend, “Making pie crust is like fingering Satan's asshole; it's super easy to fuck up, in a _bad_ way!”All he got for his advice was laughter and a playful cuff to the side of the head, leaving a smudge of flour on his cheek.

It only took them three hours, but eventually, the pie was in the oven and Isaac was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of it, glaring through the glass with a “burn my darling child and I will end you” expression on his face.

“Are you planning on sitting there the rest of the evening?” Scott sighed, standing next to him.

“Nope. Just until the pie is done.”

“So yes, all evening. Come on, we'll smell anything burning!”

“But by then it might be too late.” Isaac tore his eyes from he pie and stared, horrified, at Scott. “No, I can't risk that happening.”

With an eye roll and a dramatic sigh, worthy even of Derek himself, Scott lowered himself to the floor. “Fine. But see if I ever invite you over to bake pie with me again!”

Despite the light tone, Isaac wilted, physically slouching, his shoulders sagging and his head hanging a few degrees lower.

“Dude, I was joking!” Scott gasped. “This has been awesome.”

“I'm being obnoxious, aren't I?” Isaac asked in a small voice.

“No! You're not!” Scott smelled emotional pain and a few other things he couldn't name. Loneliness? No that was part of the distinctive scent that was Isaac. Fear? A little, but something more. Regret?

“What is it you regret?” Scott blurted, without thinking and before he could stop himself.

Isaac's head snapped up. “I regret a lot of things, Scott.” Isaac's voice was tight and controlled.

“You smell like regret,” Scott persisted, knowing where this might lead, but realizing that it couldn't stay bottled up forever.

“Losing the few friends I've ever had.” When Scott didn't say anything, Isaac continued. “I had a few before everything went to Hell. I know, hard to believe right? Well I did, but not for long. I couldn't not cling. I had no one in my life to cling to, so I clung to my friends. And they pushed me away. So I stopped. I know most people don't like clingy friends. I regret being clingy then and I regret being clingy now.” He pulled his knees up to his chest, still sitting there on the kitchen floor, in the middle of the linoleum, in front of the stove.

Scott frowned before saying slowly, “Being clingy isn't always a bad thing. Some people like to be needed as much as they need other people. That's why Stiles and I have always been such good friends, I guess we both know how much we need each other. And I think it's the same with us. I'm being pretty clingy with you too. I'm the one who invited you over here because I missed you.”

“So... do you need me?”

“Yeah.”

“More than just to write papers and pass your Creative Writing class?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Okay. That's good. Because I need you too.”

They sat there in silence until the timer went off and the phone rang and it was Melissa saying she was coming home early and _of course_ Isaac could stay for dinner, if dinner was actually happening and alright, she'd pick something up on the way.

 

Dinner was actually quite nice. Isaac was smiley and happy – genuinely happy – and Melissa liked him. She almost cried over the pie, which, thanks to Isaac's careful watching, had turned out a perfect golden brown on top. He blushed furiously when she praised it, ducking his head in embarrassment when she told him it was better than any pie _she'd_ ever made. When she told him to come over any time, day or night, he could have cried.

Melissa hugged him goodbye with a wide smile on her face, poking his side teasingly, telling him, “Come back any time! They're not feeding you well enough at home!” and not noticing the pained expression in his eyes. Scott made up for it by hugging Isaac tightly when Melissa had disappeared back to the kitchen, his arms wrapped around Isaac's chest, his head nestled into his neck. He murmured gently, “You really can though,” hoping to distract from the things making Isaac hide his face in Scott's hair.

“Thanks.”

“Hmm.”

 

 

_Sunday – Week Four_

1:01 PM Stiles: Scotttttt

1:03 PM Scott: What

1:04 PM Stiles: Is isaac there

1:04 PM Scott: No y

1:06 PM Stiles: Just wondered

1:06 PM: Scott: K

 

1:12 PM Scott: Wait

1:13 PM Scott: Y did u wonder

1:14 PM Stiles: No reason

1:15 PM Scott: Stiles i will hurt u

1:17 PM Stiles: That seems so much less sinister with the u uncapitalized

1:18 PM Scott: Answer my question

1:19 PM Stiles: Youve spent a lot of time together of late is all

1:20 PM Scott: First ur the only person who wud evr use of late in a txt

1:21 PM Scott: Second so what

1:22 PM Stiles: Oh nothing.........

 

1:26 PM Scott: I hate u

1:26 PM Stiles: I know

1:27 PM Scott: U suck

1:28 PM Stiles: I do

1:28 PM Stiles A lot ;)

1:30 PM Scott: Stop now pls

1:31 PM Stiles: Thats not what he said

 

1:37 PM Stiles: Scott

 

1:43 PM Stiles: Where are you

 

1:49 PM Stiles: Scott

 

1:57 PM Stiles: Scottttttttt

 

2:10 PM: Stiles: Scott

 

2:20 PM Stiles: Scott

 

2:27 PM Stiles: S

 

2:35 PM Stiles: C

 

2:44 PM Stiles: O

 

2:49 PM Stiles: T

 

2: 52 PM Scott: Im with isaac

2:52 PM Stiles: I win

2:54 PM Scott: I still hate u

 

3:00 PM Scott: Wait y did u txt me at 1pm on a saturday 2 ask if isaac was here

3:01PM Scott: Is that all u had 2 say

 

3:06 PM Scott: Stiles

 

3:12 PM Scott: Where r u

 

3:24 PM Stiles: I suck remember

3:26 PM Scott: ???

3:26 PM Stiles: Im at dereks

3:27 PM Scott: Dont wanna kno

3:27 PM Scott: Pls dont

3:27 PM Scott: Goodbye

 

5:17 PM Stiles: Hahahahahaha

5:18 PM Stiles: Ur just jelly


	6. Week Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of self-harm (vague), panic attack (I don't know how accurate it is), and peach pie (for Anna). The Nemo Blanket makes a reappearance!

_Monday – Week Five_

It was only a day later, but Scott still felt strangely relieved – as though he hadn't seen him for days – when Isaac climbed through the window at 11:00 that night.

“Hey! Glad you showed up.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world. What's the prompt?”

“Friend.”

“Well you shouldn't have too much trouble with that one, you have plenty of them.” His voice was level, carefully neutral, betraying much less than his erratic heartbeat.

“You'd be surprised,” Scott said lightly, trying to ignore the wave of sadness rolling off Isaac. “Stiles and I were always the losers. Then I got bitten and I got good at lacrosse and I got Jackson (if he counts) and Lydia and Erica and Boy and Derek (I guess but he's not so much a _friend_ , by definition)... and you.”

A pause. “What about Allison?”

“Uh,” Scott realized with a start that he'd forgotten about her. “I don't know. I guess so, yeah.”

Isaac didn't respond for a few seconds, looking around the room, taking in Scott's messily made bed and the clothes strewn across the floor. Scott grew increasingly more self-conscious.

“I like your house.” It came as something of a surprise to Scott, who had never really thought about how Isaac might feel about his house, about how anyone might feel about it, really. The only people whose opinions had ever mattered about the house were himself, his mom, and stiles, and their opinions were already established.

“I really do. It's nice. It's not too big or anything. It's got a nice feeling to it. It's not creepy like Derek's and it also doesn't have Peter lurking in dark corners.”

“It had better not,” Scott muttered, half expecting Peter Hale to pop out of the closet and say, “That's what you think” in as creepy a voice as he could manage.

“Also, it doesn't smell like loneliness, like Stiles's house, and it's not huge and rich looking like Jackson's or Lydia's, and it doesn't smell like death like Allison's.”

“Okay.”

“And your mom is so... _nice_ to me. She doesn't glare or drop veiled hints about me leaving. She actually hugged me. Most people just remember me as the kid who ran away or the creepy orphan or something. And your mom should have all the more reason to hate me, I mean, I'm a freaking _werewolf_!”

“Do you wish you weren't?” Scott didn't really mean to ask it, he just _did_.

Isaac fell silent, cocking his head to the side and squinting at Scott. “Do you?”

“I don't know.”

“Neither do I.”

There was a silence.

“How about that prompt then? Friend, you said? Alright, friend, I'll write too.”

 

When they were done, Isaac first, as usual, they exchanged. Isaac was oddly bashful, hesitating to give Scott the paper.

“You don't _have_ to let me read it, remember,” Scott reminded him.

“Yeah, but you realize that because you say that is exactly why I have to let you.” He handed him the paper with a sigh..

Scott read the first line. Then again. He looked up. “You wrote about me?”

Isaac looked resolutely downward.

“I... Um wow. Okay.” Scott felt suddenly inadequate and frankly, like a Class A Douchecanoe. He'd written about Stiles. Granted, Stiles had been his best friend since the age of 6 ¾. But... Sensitivity, much? _Scott McCall, you insensitive little shit._

He read on.

By the time he was done, Isaac had already finished, set the papers on the desk, all the edges lined up perfectly, his face a perfect mask of no emotion.

“You're too nice about me,” Scott accused. “I'm sort of a dick, you know.”

Isaac hummed disbelievingly. “Yeah right.”

“I am, though. I am very dickish,” Scott persisted.

“You're not, but regardless, yours was good. It wasn't great though, I mean, I think it might be B+ maybe A- writing. You've definitely done better.”

Scott scowled.

“Also, I've been wondering. This is creative writing. Why are you writing , uh, autobiographical essays?”

“Uh, well, writers write based on real life, I guess. So I think the teacher wanted us to start with what we know.”

“Okay. Makes sense.” Isaac shrugged. “I'll go, I guess.”

“Right.”

When he had gone, Scott stayed awake a while, pondering the evening. As usual, Isaac had left his paper sitting on the desk where Scott had set it. He filed it away in the folder where he kept Isaac's _holiday_ , _childhood_ , and _family_ , but not before rereading it twice more. He thought about it for a while.

He picked up his pencil and put the tip to a new sheet of blank, lined paper.

 

 

_Tuesday – Week Five_

Isaac's locker was nearly empty, as always. He barely kept anything in it. He pawed through his backpack, pulling out the one textbook inside he could leave behind – history – but paused before setting it down carefully in the bottom of the locker.

Isaac swung his bag off his shoulder, set down the textbook, and picked up the two folded sheets of paper. He knew as soon as he opened them who had written them. He knew the handwriting as well as his own by now. He noted the large read A+ at the top. His eyes skimmed the lines, slightly narrowed. He paused on the title – “Friend” – and then again, lower, on the first word of the second paragraph. His own name.

After he finished reading, he read it again, leaning against the wall of lockers, a smile on his lips. Then he read it halfway through a third time, just the end.

He grabbed his bag, shutting the locker quickly, jamming the lock back into place, and jogged down the hall, dodging people with practiced ease. He had somewhere to be.

 

“Holy _crap_ , Isaac!” Scott gasped, nearly falling off the bed in surprise when Isaac tumbled in the window. “What's wrong? Are you okay?” He scrambled to his feet, eyes darting over Isaac's body, assessing him for damage. His eyes stopped on the folded papers in his hand. “Oh, did you read –”

Isaac surged forward and wrapped his arms around Scott, encasing him in a hug at first awkward, but melting into something near perfection. With Isaac's face to his hair, Scott burrowed his nose into the place between Isaac's neck and shoulder, reaching his arms around his chest and feeling him instead of relaxing, clinging tighter.

“Thank you,” Isaac whispered into Scott's ear.

“Well thank _you_ ,” Scott whispered back, smiling into Isaac's shoulder.

“It was good. And you got an A.”

Scott laughed.

They stood in silence for a moment before Isaac tightened his grip briefly and pulled away, face reddening. “Sorry about that, um, you probably have things to do, so I'll go now.”

Scott snagged his arm, halting his escape. “I don't actually. Not really. Why don't you stay? We could make another pie...” he wheedled.

“Okay, you got me,” Isaac relented. “I'll stay for the pie.”

“Ha!” Scott crowed. “Can we make peach this time? My mom bought a bunch of peaches and she likes peach so... Please?”

“Okay, that's fine,” Isaac told him patiently. “I don't care what kind of pie we make.”

“Good, because next time I want to try cherry.”

Isaac rolled his eyes but smiled and followed him down the stairs.

 

Sitting on the floor in front of the stove, they did physics homework. Isaac got distracted by the pie, checking back every few minutes to make sure it wasn't burning. Melissa returned to a house that smelled like peaches and baking. “I'm not surprised,” she sighed when she found Scott and Isaac sitting on the linoleum. “The smell of pie gave it away. But we _do_ have chairs and a table, you know.” She paused. “Scott, are you doing homework early on a weekday afternoon? Are you _actually_ – you know what, I won't ask. It's better to just enjoy it while it lasts, but Isaac, honey, my sincerest congratulations on convincing him to do this because I have spent years trying.”

Isaac smiled at her.

 

 

_Thursday – Week Five_

Thursday night progressed further and further, the clock running past 10, past 11, past midnight. No Isaac. Past 1 and still no Isaac. Scott was on the verge of panicking. The worry had set in around 11 and it had gotten progressively worse ever since. He'd finished the prompt during the wait – _Book,_ and not very interesting – and sat for a while, staring blankly at the wall.

He actually started pacing at one point, thinking maybe he'd picked it up from Derek. That got boring after a few laps around the room, so he leaned against the desk, shoulders hunched forward, arms crossed. He frowned at his door.

A noise outside met his ears, sending him flailing – almost Stiles-like – off the desk, whirling to peer out the window into the night.

A bedraggled and bloodied Isaac looked up at him from the street.

“Whoa, dude!” Scott gasped, slithering out the window and onto the roof. “What _happened_?”

Isaac blinked at him. He moved forward, limping, pausing a moment before hauling himself up the side of the porch to the railing and then to the roof, with help from Scott, who practically carried him to the bed.

“Who did this to you?” Scott fought to contain the wave of rage and anxiety that threatened to overcome him. He'd never felt quite so much like ripping someone to shreds before. “What happened?” he pried, mind racing. “Was there an attack? A fight? Are you okay? Why aren't you healing faster?” He frowned at the bruises on Isaac's face and neck, the scratches made by the claws of another wolf. He noted Isaac's hand on his side and the way he held one leg up slightly, his knee quivering.

Scott knelt in front of Isaac, staring up at him with wide open eyes. “Hey. What happened? What did they do to you?” Maintaining eye contact, Scott reached a hand out to touch Isaac's, pulling his hand away from his side. Isaac winced and gritted his teeth. “Let me see.” Scott lifted the shirt, pulling it away from the skin, triggering a low moan. “Knife?” He frowned when Isaac nodded. “Why isn't it healing?” he asked again.

“Wolfsbane, some relative of it anyway. That's what Derek said.” He took a deep breath. “It'll heal, apparently, as long as I let it bleed out. It'll leave my system, I'll be fine.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Like Hell, but worse.”

“What about your leg?”

“Yeah, uh.” His voice was short, clipped. He swallowed.

“Do you wanna stay here tonight?”

“Can I?”

“Yeah! Of course you can.” Scott walked to his closet and rooted through his clothes. “Here, you can wear these.” He held up a shirt and a pair of sweats. “They're too big for me, so they should fit you.”

“I'll bleed on them though,” Isaac protested.

“That's why we have a washing machine.”

“But your mom –”

“Knows about werewolves. She won't mind a little blood. It's fine. She knows we heal, she won't worry... Too much. Come on. That stuff you're wearing is a mess. Seriously. It can't be comfortable.” Isaac's shirt was ripped and soaked through, his pants caked in mud and blood.

He helped Isaac take off his shirt, wincing with him as he raised his arms above his head and gasped. He put a comforting hand on Isaac's hunched shoulder, feeling the heat from his bare skin and smelling the mingled scents of pain, exhaustion, and embarrassment. “What are you embarrassed about?” he murmured.

Isaac didn't answer at first, just put his hands over his face with a sharp intake of breath. Finally, he said, melting into Scott's touch, “I'm – I just feel so vulnerable. And I hate it.”

Wordless, Scott lifted one of Isaac's hands from his face, then the other, lifting them about his head to help him into the shirt. He pulled Isaac to his feet, pausing to mutter something about pants. Isaac actually smiled a little at Scott's clumsy discomfort and unbuttoned his jeans, letting them fall to the floor. Using Scott's shoulder for balance, he stepped out of them. Scott felt himself blushing as he concentrated on Isaac's face and held out the sweats.

Eventually, they ended up lying on Scott's bed. Somehow it went from sitting on the edge to Scott lying on his back, Isaac next to him on his side, head on Scott's shoulder. Somehow.

“So was it an awesome fight at least?” Scott asked in a whisper.

Isaac heaved a sigh. “Not really. It was over pretty quickly. They sort of jumped me, but then Derek showed up with Boyd and... Yeah.”

“Where _were_ you?” Scott frowned.

“The woods.”

“Alone?”

“Well yeah.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“Walking? I don't know.”

“Did they go back to Derek's?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I couldn't. You were close. I wanted you.” Isaac sounded like a small child. There was a plaintive tone in his voice.

“Well you probably should have gone back with them,” Scott admonished and immediately regretted it. “No no, not like that,” he moaned, smelling the hurt and disappointment. “Just, Derek knows more about this stuff than I do. He could help.”

“You do help.”

“Not much.”

“Not true.”

Scott was silent. “Why...” He considered his next question carefully before continuing. “Why were you here the first night? I mean, you said you saw the light on, but why were you over here to begin with? It's pretty far from home...”

“People keep doing that, calling it _home_.” Isaac's voice came sharply, but without real anger. “It's not. That place isn't home.”

“You didn't answer my question,” complained Scott, nudging Scott's shoulder with his hand, arm trapped under Isaac's neck.

“I don't know. I was just _here,_ ” Isaac sighed.

“Okay.” Scott wasn't going to press.

The silence persisted for a long while before Isaac whispered, “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“No problem. I mean, I couldn't let you crawl back through the woods like this. Nope.” Scott gave Isaac's shoulder a little squeeze. “And I like it when you're around, as we have already established, though I _do_ prefer it when you're not injured and radiating pain like a freaking microwave.”

Isaac snorted. “Microwaves don't radiate anything.”

“Whatever. You're radiating pain is the point.”

“...Sorry.”

“Don't apologize! I just don't like you being hurt. I don't want to see you in pain.” He reached a hand down to Isaac's stomach, pulling up his shirt to splay his fingers across his ribcage. He felt Isaac stiffen against his side and sensed the confusion. “Relax. I'm just... trying to ease the pain some,” he soothed, feeling the tension seeping out of Isaac's body. “Does this help any?”

Isaac sighed, letting the breath out in a whoosh. “Are you kidding? That makes it a million times better.”

“Good...” Scott closed his eyes, feeling the tiredness creeping in. “You should get some sleep.”

“Hmm.” Isaac snuggled down close to Scott, positioned perfectly so his side was pressed against Scott, head on his shoulder, with his legs stretched out and his injured side untouched. Scott could feel the exhaustion filling Isaac's body and whispered into his hair, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Isaac whispered back.

Within a few minutes, they were both asleep.

 

 

_Friday – Week Five_

Scott woke to a pounding on his door, his mother's voice outside telling him it was time for school. He lay still with his eyes closed for a moment, trying to remember why Isaac was lying next to him, one leg tangled between his, head on his chest, and arm slung across his ribs.

Oh, okay. It was all coming back to him.

“Coming, uh, soon,” he called, waiting for her to leave before removing his arm from around Isaac's shoulders. He got dressed, making as little noise as possible as he did so. His eyes strayed back to the sleeping Isaac, hair ruffled and on end, eyes shut. His mouth was open slightly, lips parted a fraction of an inch, and Scott could hear his quiet breathing. Scott had seen beyond Isaac's facade before, but now, it was hitting him again, harder: The tall, seemingly strong and cocky boy sleeping in his bed was far from unbreakable, however hard he tried to act it.

Isaac's eyes fluttered open and before Scott could pretend not to be looking (read: staring) at him, he squinted at him, breathing, “Time for school?”

“You gonna go?”

“Well, I should –” Isaac sat up and a hand shot to his ribs, the pain slamming into him with such a ferocity that Scott could _feel_ it and flew to his side, eyes wide and panicked.

“Are you okay? Has it not healed yet?” His hands scrabbled at Isaac's shirt, pulling it up over his ribs to reveal an angry red mark, fading at the edges back into the tan of Isaac's skin. He traced a finger over it, feeling the heat it gave off and seeing Isaac wince. “How about you not go to school today?”

“But – I can't just stay here?” Isaac motioned around Scott's room.

“Can't you? My mom is going to work today. She won't be back till evening. I'll be home after school.” He shrugged.

“Well...” Isaac looked up at him and smiled. “I guess so.”

“Okay, cool,” Scott snagged his backpack off the floor, feeling slightly exhilarated at the thought of Isaac being there when he came home. “You can just sleep, do whatever. There's food in the kitchen when you get hungry. You should probably sleep right now, I mean, you don't look too great.”

It was true. Isaac's eyes were shadowed, his cheeks flushed and feverish.

“Are you sure this is supposed to be happening?” Scott frowned at him. “Why don't I call Derek and ask him, because this is really starting to worry me, like more than it already was.”

“Don't bother,” Isaac muttered, waving him away feebly. “You'll be late for school.”

“Okay, _mom_ , I'll call at lunch to see if you're okay.”

 

Scott called Derek anyway while making Isaac a sandwich.

“Is he screaming in agony?”

“No.”

“Writhing in pain?”

“No.”

“Hallucinating?”

“No, but –”

“Then he should be fine. I've encountered this kind of thing before, once, but it was enough. It'll get through his system by tonight.” There was a scuffle and an exclamation and Peter came on the line. “Let him sleep it off, Scott. And do you have any blueberries in your house?”

“Uh no?”

“Damn.”

“Why? Does he need them? Should I _get_ some?” Scott frantically checked the refrigerator.

“Oh _would_ you? That would be _fabulous_ , thank you, Scott darling.” Another scuffle and Derek was back. “Ignore him. No blueberries.”

Peter yelled from across the room, “No cobbler for you, then!” and Derek hung up.

 

At lunch, Scott called his house to check up on Isaac, waiting six whole rings before he picked up and practically falling off his chair with relief.

“I'm fine, Scott.”

“Did you find your sandwich?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you, by the way. It was good. How did you know I would like peanut butter and Nutella?”

“Lucky guess.”

“...”

“...”

“Thanks for calling to check up on me.”

“Thanks for not being dead.”

“Scott, that is _so_ not a legitimate thing to thank me for.”

“It so is.”

“Is not.”

“Is too –”

At that point, Erica stole the phone and told Isaac about how Scott nearly fainted when Isaac didn't pick up at first and how he stared at the same page in the text book for 15 minutes in Econ until Stiles hit him, before Scott got the phone back from her. He heard only laughter from the other end, so he said good bye, threw in a “take care of yourself” and hung up.

 

Biking home took five minutes fewer than usual.

He found Isaac asleep in his bed. He had stripped off his shirt, baring his side., where the wound had almost completely healed, just a shadow of a mark left on his smooth skin. An open book lay next to him – Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone – half-finished. Scott's laundry had magically folded itself on the chair. And the little bastard had washed his plate.

Scott curled up next to him on the bed, drinking in the scent of him, examining his profile, the sharpness of his jaw and the gentle curve of his forehead. It had been a long time since he'd looked at someone like that... Scott's mind slid to Allison for the first time in... a long time. (Stiles would be proud.) But, he wondered... what did that _mean_? He'd thought he'd be in love with her forever. He'd told her he would wait. And he'd believed it.

And yet he hadn't thought about her in... so long he'd forgotten how long it had been. He couldn't remember even one time his mind had landed on her during a daydream, not one thought of her, not one – cough – sex dream. Sure, she was in DC with her mom's parents, and sure, she wasn't at school for him to pine over in person... But he'd changed his passwords. He'd actually buried her last note under his stack of creative writing prompts (not on purpose) and even more impressively, he hadn't dug it out yet. The picture of them together wasn't on the bulletin board any more, and though he didn't actually remember when he took it down, he was pretty sure he put it in a drawer under a history test... or was it physics?

And when he fell asleep a minute later, he didn't dream about her. He didn't dream at all actually, no lacrosse, no kanima, no werewolves, no hunters, no coach yelling at him to _shoot, shoot_ , no Harris giving him detention... But when he woke, it was to the sounds of a nightmare, Isaac thrashing frantically, his hands clenching the blankets, mouth open, pleading for someone to “let me out, please _please_ let me out.” A tear squeezed from under his eyelids and his voice cracked on the words “please open the lid, _please_ ,” one hand flailing above him. Scott could could smell the fear and distress Isaac emitted and could hear his heart speeding in his chest.

And he had no fucking _clue_ what to do.

Isaac let out a strangled cry and some instinct kicked in inside Scott. He reached his arms around Isaac, around his shoulders and waist, dragging him closer, pressing him tight to his chest and burying his face in his curls, his hands splayed on Isaac's naked back. “Shhh, you're okay, it's okay, you're asleep, Isaac, wake up, you're okay,”he murmured, trying to smother the shaking with his own body.

He felt Isaac's arms snaking around his waist and his face burrowing into his neck. He felt breath on his skin, unsteady and short. Hands clenched in his shirt, no claws, just fingernails scraping along his shoulder blades.

“You're okay,” he repeated against Isaac's ear. “It was a nightmare, a dream.”

Isaac let out a long, shaky breath. “I know,” he muttered, bringing a hand up to wipe at his face over Scott's shoulder.

Scott pulled away to look into Isaac's face and saw tears in his eyes. “Hey,” he exclaimed. “Hey, Isaac, hey, it's okay, you're safe now. He'll never lock you in that freezer again, no one will, you know that right? Never.”

“Promise?” The word came out like a gust of wind – no, not wind, a breeze, gentle and small.

“I promise. I won't let them.” Scott pulled him back. “I promise.” He ran his hands through Isaac's hair, drawing a sigh from him. He felt Isaac relaxing, his breath coming steadily, his heartbeat slowing down.

“I'm sorry.”

It took Scott a moment to realize that Isaac had spoken, had _apologized_. “For what?” he almost snapped. “What are you sorry for? You have _nothing_ to be sorry for, Isaac, do you hear me?”

It took him another moment to realize that Isaac was crying.

“I'm sorry for being an idiot. _Kids_ have nightmares. I'm sorry, Scott,” he gasped, tears coming faster.

Scott had always been one of those people who hated seeing others cry. “Come on, Isaac,” he managed, fighting tears of his own, “Don't apologize. Please.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Isaac's shoulders and gathered him close, cradling his head to his chest. “It's okay, it's _okay._ ”

“But I'm messing up your life, Scott, and I'm sorry.” He tried to pull away, fighting Scott's firm arms around him.

“What? Messing up my life? No way,” Scott growled, tugging him closer, feeling some sort of strange new emotion, one he couldn't quite name, growing in his chest. “You make my life a lot better, okay? And no, I'm not letting you go anywhere, not now.” He stubbornly settled in with his head pillowed on Isaac's curls, one arm around his back, the other around his stomach, locking him firmly in place. “You don't know how much I need you, Isaac,” he whispered.

“I think you know how much _I_ need _you_ ,” Isaac whispered back.

 

Scott called Derek to drive Isaac home in the evening. He was still somewhat... out of it. And a bit dizzy. When he stood up. Scott had to catch him to stop him falling down the stairs and practically carried him off the porch to the car.

Derek rolled his eyes when Scott told him to make sure he slept enough and patted down his curls. But he didn't drive too fast on the way back. And he took the longer, smoother way through the woods, avoiding _most_ of the tree roots.

 

 

_Saturday – Week Five_

Scott had learned many things in the past few years. It began with the transformation – how to control it, how to stop it, how to use his newfound abilities. Then he had learned how to operate in a Pack, part of a greater and more powerful whole. And then how to follow a leader. But currently, the most important thing lesson he had learned was very recent, and that was that he could not stay away from Isaac Lahey for more than 24 hours, 12 if Isaac wasn't in stellar condition. It was a very important life lesson.

He showed up on the Pack Porch (Stiles liked calling it that, it had “a certain flow to it, a certain... je ne sais quoi”) at 10 AM on Saturday, leaving his bike propped against a tree in the otherwise empty clearing in front of the house.

“Um, Scott? What are you –” Derek began, but decided to just let him in and not ask questions. “Just come in. Peter took the Camaro into town to _shop_ this morning so don't worry about him.”

“Well hey!” Stiles called from the living room, lounging on the sofa.

“Wait a minute... What are _you_ – You know what, I don't even wanna know. I don't want to hear anything I'll regret knowing later.” He waved off Derek's red-faced explanation that “Stiles parked around back, but wait, no, we didn't –” as he climbed the stairs, telling them that he could smell _all_ he needed to know.

“Scott?” A sleepy voice came from the door to his right.

He jumped. “How did you know it was me?” he asked before realizing how stupid that sounded. He was a _werewolf_ , for Christ's sake. But Isaac's answer was _not_ what he expected (though still totally worth it).

“I recognized your footsteps.”

 _That_ made him stop. Did he recognize Isaac's footsteps? When he thought about it, he could reconstruct them in his head... Slow, a bit of a shuffle when he was preoccupied, lighter and longer when he was happy (the long-legged bastard). But it gave him a sort of rush, knowing that Isaac knew his footsteps.

“Hey. Feeling better?” Scott asked, nudging open the door with his foot.

Isaac lay on his bed, legs covered in the disturbingly brightly colored Nemo blanket. His hair was flattened as he turned to look at Scott, craning his neck around to look up. “Better, I guess,” he fibbed.

“Hey now, no lying. I can smell your physical discomfort,” Scott told him with a light tone.

Isaac made a face. “I guess I'm feeling kind of crappy.”

Scott crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

“Okay fine, so I feel like shit still,” he confessed, “But _don't freak out_ ,” he squawked as Scott surged forward to the bed and began to panic. “I'll be _fine_ , I'm a _werewolf_ , I'll _heal_!”

Scott made a face. “That doesn't stop me from worrying. It hasn't healed yet, and it's been like three days.” Isaac frowned. “Okay, only a day and a half, but I'll still worry. Just because you'll heal doesn't make it okay. It doesn't mean it's okay for you to be in pain now. It still hurts while it's there.”

Isaac said nothing, just played with the hem of his – Scott's – shirt, the one he'd lent him. Unconsciously, he drew his fingers across his wrist, digging in the nails when Scott's eyes jumped downward from his face, tracking the movement. He tried unsuccessfully to hid his hands behind his back. “I –”

“Isaac.” Scott watched himself reach out, not completely in control of his own body, and snatch Isaac's arm. His fingers ghosted over the inside of Isaac's wrists, smooth skin, criss-crossed by the faintest of scars. “Isaac, please tell me you didn't used to.” Scott heard his own voice from far away, muffled and low, he heard the danger in his voice as he repeated, “ _Please_.”

“Scott, I... I...” Isaac looked away, refused to meet his eyes.

Scott was suddenly leaning over him, holding himself up on his hands, knees on the edge of the bed. “Isaac, why would you...” He looked down to his wrists. “When was it?”

Isaac didn't trust his voice to function properly, expected nothing to come out when he opened his mouth, but his voice was surprisingly steady when he said, “A couple years ago, beginning of freshman year. That's all, it's fine – Scott –”

“You're lying.”

“...And again,” his voice hoarse, “Beginning of sophmore year.”

“What about after you turned?” pressed Scott. “When you knew it would heal? And nobody would see?”

“No – I – Yes – Just once!” Isaac floundered, desperately wishing Scott would stop looking so pained, like Isaac's miserable life physically hurt him. “Scott, stop looking at me like that,” he whispered, trying to look away and avoid the brown eyes that bore deeply into his own. “Scott, say something, please.”

Scott glared, arms shaking and fingers curling to clench the bed cover on either side of Isaac's hips, claws and teeth threatening to appear.

A dam somewhere inside Isaac broke. The leak of emotions and words was too much for his walls to handle. He felt his self-control breaking down and crumbling away, waves of anxiety even _he_ could feel rolling off his body. “I'm sorry. I was lonely, I was depressed, I had no one, I couldn't, I couldn't –” his voice broke “– I couldn't deal with it all. Everything was too overwhelming. I was alone, I was scared, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_.” He could feel his panic mounting and his heart rate soaring. Breathing seemed to be getting more and more difficult somehow, like his lungs couldn't open wide enough and his throat was closing up. He could hear himself gasping, feel his hands shaking, but didn't notice the tears until they blurred his vision and Scott's face wobbled in front of him.

A hand pressed into his chest. “Isaac. Isaac, you need to breath, okay? I think you're having a panic attack. You need to breathe.”

“Can't,” gasped Isaac, torn between clinging to Scott and pushing him away and eventually just curling into a ball and hiding his face.

“Concentrate on something,” Scott was telling him. “Match your breathing with mine, concentrate on it and just breathe. Find your anchor and concentrate on it and breathe” Isaac opened his eyes. He concentrated. He breathed. He became suddenly aware of the fact that Scott had his arms around his shoulders, effectively pinning Isaac to his chest. His nose was in Isaac's hair, his lips – oh God – brushing against Isaac's temple as he murmured, “There, you're okay, it's okay.”

Isaac pushed away the sudden flood of emotion to realize that, if this were anyone else – _anyone_ – he would be throwing them off in half a second. But it was Scott and Scott was... _Scott_ and that sent some sort of tingle down Isaac's spine and gave him a funny light, electric fluttering in his stomach and a swelling in his chest cavity – unless that was just his lungs. Har de har. But since it _was_ Scott, and Scott was _Scott_ , Isaac melted into him, and when he rubbed his fingers over Isaac's scalp, he just let him. Because it felt _good_. More than good, it made him _happy_.

Scott took a deep breath, nose still buried in Isaac's hair, then made a contented sound. “You smell happy,” he said under his breath. “It's nice.”

“Hmm,” Isaac hummed.

“I'm sorry.”

“What? What for?” Isaac could have laughed at the total role reversal if it weren't for the fact that he could still feel the tear tracks on his face.

“It's my fault, I pushed you, I panicked, if I hadn't been so freaked out, this wouldn't have happened,” Scott rambled.

“It's okay,” Isaac told him. “I don't blame you. I'm fine. It's fine.”

Neither of them said the obvious, which was that Isaac was _obviously not_ _fine_.

“Okay so I am severely worried,” Stiles said form the doorway. “This _so_ does not look platonic for starters and Derek said he heard panicked heartbeats, so I am very much freaked out.” He ran a hand through his hair, fluffing it up to it's full height while gesturing wildly with the other hand. He looked from Scott to Isaac and back again (which, frankly, wasn't a very long distance). “Do you two need a chaperone?”

Scott glared. “Go away, Stiles.”

“Going!” Stiles turned on his heel and headed back out the door, snagging Derek on his way out.

“What did he mean, this doesn't look platonic?” Isaac began.

“Shhh...” Scott shushed him, pressing a finger to Isaac's lips to silence him and repositioning himself on the cushions. An impatient tug on Isaac's sleeve brought him down next to Scott, pressed close to his chest. After a moment's hesitation, Isaac pulled the Nemo blanket over them, settling into his best friend's chest and trying to ignore the flutter of his heart over the possible-non-platonicness of it, whatever _it_ was.

But whatever _it_ was, he liked _it_ immensely. 


	7. Week Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before the epilogue! Woohoo! *dances the dance of victory*

_Monday – Week Six_

“Food” went very quickly. Scott knew it wasn't exactly stellar writing, but hey, with a dumb prompt like “Food,” what could the teacher really expect?

The main reason _why_ food went so quickly was because possibly-non-platonic cuddling was almost guaranteed to follow. At 1:46 AM by the clock on Scott's nightstand, Isaac said he should go and Scott waved it off with a sleepy “Nah, just stay the night,” which was met with little-to-no resistance. For safety's sake, they called Derek, who answered the phone with a gruff, “For Christ's sake, Scott, what even is this, I know Isaac is there, just go the fuck to sleep,” and, from nearby, Stiles added, “Be safe and use protection,” which was quiet enough on Scott's end that he thought Isaac, half asleep already, might not have heard.

 

 

_Wednesday – Week Six_

“So, uh, Scott.” Stiles grinned at him from the driver's seat on the way home from school Wednesday afternoon. “I've been wondering... How are you feeling about Allison?”

Scott frowned. “What do you mean, how am I _feeling_ about Allison?”

“I mean, how are you _feeling_ ,” Stiles intoned, making wide, circular motions with his hands and rolling his eyes like it should be obvious. Classic Stiles.

“I'd prefer you keep both hands on the steering wheel, thanks,” Scott told him.

Stiles glared and put both hands back on the steering wheel. “You didn't answer my question. And I seem to recall another time when you didn't answer my question because you were in lovesick haze, it was a very serious question and, as it turns out, I was completely wrong in thinking that I am unattractive to gay guys, which would have been nice to know, though I guess he's technically not gay, he's bi, but –”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute here,” interrupted Scott, turning to stare accusingly at Stiles. “Who said I'm in a lovesick haze?”

“Oh, well I thought it was obvious, obviously, but that's actually why I was asking anyway, so.”

“Asking _what_?”

“How you felt about Allison.”

“Uh, we're not together any more, Stiles, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed. Believe me, I noticed. And I think someone else noticed too, actually.” Before Scott could ask, he continued, “But! That does not mean you can't still be in love with her – _not_ that I think you are, obviously, but I just needed to be sure exactly how over her you are.” He paused for breath before looking Scott straight in the eye and saying, “So are you or are you not in love with Isaac Lahey?”

 

“Derek hates it when I say 'in love.' I guess technically, it's not 'love,' it's mating, I mean, you guys are wolves after all. Derek thinks it diminishes his wolfliness, so obviously I say it as often as possible. What do you think? Does it diminish your wolfliness? I guess what I should ask is 'have you figured out that you've found your mate and that it's Isaac?'”

Stiles shot him an expectant raise of the eyebrows. “I'm waiting.”

“For what?” groaned Scott. His brain hurt from trying to weed out the fluff from the actual content.

“For you to answer my question? _Duh_.”

“Which question? I'm only on wolfliness.”

 

 

_Thursday – Week Six_

_Flower_.

Scott wrote about his mom's rose bushes. Isaac wrote about the floral print curtains Peter bought for the Derek's bedroom. (Stiles liked them, so they stayed.)

 

 

_Friday – Week Six_

“Okay, Scotty-boy,” Erica chirped, snagging his sleeve to swing him around. “I'm calling Pack Movie Night. That includes you. And Isaac too. No more sneaking off during meetings, you hear? Jackson worried you might need a chaperone.” Behind her, Boyd smirked and Stiles made a mock-serious face while stage-whispering, “He's not the only one.”

“ _What_?” Scott spluttered. “Guys –”

“Just be there. 5 PM. There will be food.”

“Also,” Jackson added as he glided by, “Derek says no _Notebook_ , so we're safe.”

“Hey, that was a good movie!” Boyd yelled after him and ducked the flying binder with a grin on his face.

 

There weren't really enough couches for all of them. It only seemed like there should be. Erica and Boyd sprawled on a futon mattress on the floor, limbs tangled together. Derek and Stiles were squished into one couch with Jackson _and_ Lydia, who was perched on Jackson's lap. Scott thought that Stiles, pressed between Derek on one side and the couple on the other, seemed unreasonably pleased with the arrangement, happier than any man with that little space should be. Scott found himself on a small couch with Isaac, just wide enough for them to sit without actually touching each other. Scott fixed that. By the second scene, he had pressed himself into Isaac's side. By the third scene, Isaac pressed back. By the sixth scene, Scott was effectively curled into Isaac, pressing hard against him, one arm slung across his chest. Isaac relaxed under him easily, with a faint sigh of breath into Scott's hair.

“Popcorn,”Erica announced, dragging Boyd up with her, sometime during the second movie of the night. “Don't pause it for us.” A house exploded and 15 people were killed in various bloody ways before Lydia sighed and flounced to the kitchen, proclaiming loudly that “It does _not_ take this long to make popcorn,” Jackson trailing behind her like a puppy. Derek made no excuses when he practically carried a drowsy Stiles upstairs half an hour later, just gave Isaac a long look before disappearing into the hall and up the stairs.

Isaac sighed in the darkness, the only light and sound coming from the TV. Absently, he trailed his fingers through Scott's hair. It wasn't a conscious movement, just something his fingers did of their own accord. Everything about it – the way Scott sprawled across his chest and the way their breathing matched and the way their bodies fit together – felt right. Isaac had never been more happy.

“You smell like rainbows and cupcakes and baby unicorns,” Scott muttered sleepily, tilting his head back to look at Isaac upside down. “I like it.”

Isaac froze, fingers entwined in Scott's hair. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Scott snuggled closer. “I like all of this. Probably more than I should.”

Isaac frowned. “Why is that?”

“Because I didn't want to mess this up,” Scott whispered.

“You're not going to mess _anything_ up,” Isaac told him carefully. “I think I like this at least as much as you do. Maybe more.”

“Really?” Scott rolled off of him, leaving Isaac a bit chilly and slightly disappointed. Scott was leaning close to him now, propped up on one elbow on the back of the couch on one side of Isaac's chest and a hand on the other. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Isaac murmured and then he kissed Scott. Or maybe Scott kissed him, he couldn't tell... But their lips pressed together, one of Scott's hands going to Isaac's chest as he pulled himself up further over his body. Isaac tangled his hands in Scott's hair, running them over his chest, his neck, his shoulders –

“Wow. Finally.”

“Erica, shut _up_!” Stiles groaned. “Why did you interrupt? Do you _know_ how long I have waited for this?”

Scott and Isaac broke apart, red-faced and breathing hard.

“Guys, stop it. Come on, leave them alone, back to bed.” Derek corralled his Pack and ushered them back upstairs. “You are all horrible and you have to do _all_ the dishes. By yourself. For a week. _Each_.”

“Aw, Derek,” Erica complained.

“Don't argue,” Lydia advised, pulling Jackson's sweater closer around her. “Just accept your punishment and go quietly.”

Scott buried his nose in Isaac's neck. “That was the single most embarrassing thing I have ever experienced in my entire lifetime. The whole Pack. The _whole Pack_!”

“ _You_ don't have to live with them,” Isaac muttered.

“ _You_ don't have to either. You can stay at my house,” Scott offered.

“It's not as if he doesn't already,” Jackson called from upstairs.

“But for tonight, can I sleep here? You've slept in my bed, I want to sleep in yours,” Scott said, a twinkle in his eye.

“TMI!” shouted Boyd.

“No no, tell me more!” Erica shrieked.

“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU,” Derek bellowed.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand *drum roll please* here's the epilogue!

_EPILOGUE_

“I need something to write about,” pleaded Scott, toying with Isaac's fingers, from his seat on the floor, head resting on Isaac's knee.

“You're a big boy now, Scott,” Isaac teased. “Really, it's the end of the semester, can't you think of things to write about on your own yet?” When Scott made a puppy-dog face, he gave in, getting to his feet and sifting through some papers on the desk. “What have we done... _pets_ , _holidays_ , _animals_...” He broke off, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a scrap of paper with four words scrawled on it. He smiled. “Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when I say the word... _Pen_?”

“That garish pink thing Stiles gave you... last week... with the feathers on top,” Scott said without hesitation.

“ _Time_?” Isaac asked, crawling to the center of the bed.

“The amount of _time_ you've spent trying to help me think of things to write about.”

“ _Dessert_?”

“Pie!” Scott crowed, climbing over the side of the bed to reach his arms around Isaac. “What are you reading from, anyway?”

Isaac pulled it away and read off, “ _Blue_?”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Scott said, "these are the prompts you gave me the first time we did this. I remember these. I said Allison every time.” He looked straight into Isaac's eyes.

“What does _blue_ make you think of?” Isaac asked, a bit hoarsely.

“Your eyes,” Scott said evenly. And kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've reached the end... So um yay?  
> Thank you to Anna (feathers-fairydust.tumblr.com) for catching my errors ♥ and thank you everyone for your comments (they make me squeeee with joy)!


End file.
